The culprit is the door jamb. Some mystical magnesium or ironic iron exists only in the door jambs of my house, not allowing those ideas to come to fruition. There have been really thoughtfully laid out blog posts about my looming mid-life crisis or some eloquently crafted anti-right-wing argument that have all been zapped by the rectangular mind eraser. It is like Q raised his wand thingy in front of my face and erased my thoughts on what it means to live in suburbia in Charlotte.
The issue is not if this happens, I have researched the issue greatly and my boring blog is proof enough that it does happen. The issue is why this happens. Either I am too afraid to share with you what I want to write, or my prevailing and biggest lead on the case, that my mind is too lazy to hold the thoughts in long enough to get them all down into a word processor. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, logically, my wasteful mind is just plain terrible.
I am lazy, so I bore myself with play by play accounts of what has or what is going to happen. Like a thirteen year old girl scribbling in her diary about how Johnny Footballhero winked at her in the hall and commented on how good her hair smelled. Written words are so hard to pull a tone out of the Times New Roman, but I am breathing heavily as a I write this because I am so pissed at myself for being this way. Alas I am.
Please comment with the movie and song referenced in this post... please do not look at the comments until you bother to at least guess.